


Home At Last

by Maitimiel



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Oresteia - Aeschylus
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Mentions of Character Death, mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maitimiel/pseuds/Maitimiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enough blood has been spilled; Demeter steps up to do some damage control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy reading just as much as I enjoyed writing it ;)

Iphigenia had asked Clytemnestra not to weep for her. Not to grieve, not to cut a tress of her hair or dress herself and her siblings in the colors of mourning. "I bring salvation and victory to Greece," she had said. Clytemnestra had tried, for her daughter's memory, to obey.

But the cold that settled within her the moment Agamemnon's blade had descended upon their daughter's throat had never faded. Clytemnestra gained no pleasure to watch the rest of her children grow. Aegisthus could warm her bed, but not her heart. Not even revenge, bloody and rightful as it had been, could appease her misery.

She had dreamed again of her daughter. Iphigenia had floated in an ocean of blood dark and vile, her rosy lips stained with it. Clytemnestra had not found sleep again after that. Leaving Aegisthus asleep in her marriage bed, she walked alone to the house heart.

Normally she would have called a servant to light up the torches and stoke the fire, but tonight she couldn't bear to see another's face.

 

* * *

 

 

Demeter rarely involved herself in the matters of mortal men and women. She was a goddess of harvest and fertility, and had little patience for the pettiness and drama of mortals. She loved the purity and honesty of her work, and was content to dedicate herself fully to it.

But when Ártemis had taken that sweet girl as sacrifice from the greeks, even Demeter could not look away. It was not her place to reprimand other gods on their actions, yet the amount of pain contained in such deed had made her restless. The cries of the deceived mother still echoed in her memory. Had she not been the same once, did she not feel the acute loss of her child again every year, when Persephone went back to _him_?

Many years had passed since, but the wounds had not healed. The suffering had not been mitigated. The greeks had won their war bought with the blood of the innocent and returned to their homes. But some homes were more welcoming than others.

Clytemnestra had not forgotten about her husband's crimes, this anyone could have seemed. Nor could she be blamed, when such husband not only once, but twice had taken her children from her. He had cheated and deceived her and manipulated their child unto self-sacrifice in order to pay for his own mistakes. It was only fair that she should hate him and extract her vengeance.

But there were also bigger powers acting there, powers Clytemnestra had no control over, and that would inevitably drag her down with her husband if nothing was done to help her.

Demeter didn't like to interfere in mortal fates, but this time, she felt she had to.

 

* * *

 

 

She had cursed the sea. Yelled at it. After the ship bearing Agamemnon departed from Aulis, she had often traveled back to stare at the waves. Such waves would come and break at the beach bellow her with a fury that was similar to Clytemnestra own. When she had brought Iphigenia to be married, the sea had been unmoving. Stale.

Aegisthus never accompanied her to Aulis. "There is no point," he would say. She preferred it that way. Helpful as he had been in her revenge, in keeping her safe, he did not understand her heart. He was happy to rule. She would never be happy again.

She walked to the altar of Ártemis where her daughter's heart had beaten its last beat. Somehow, she did not hate de Goddess for it. It was Agamemnon, and only Agamemnon who was to be blamed. Clytemnestra left her offerings and told her servants to wait there.

Alone, she went outside of the temple and looked to the sea. She wished she could sail too, and leave behind all the pain she had collected. Once she might believe it possible, but she knew better now; she had no friends to go to.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she almost choked when a velvety voice spoke behind her:

"Perhaps a friend might come to you."

Clytemnestra turned around quickly and found herself in the presence of a tall woman with hair as golden as wheat that mingled softly with her cascading white dress. Her eyes were of a blue deep as the ocean, and she looked at Clytemnestra with pity. There was no mistaking it - she was of the immortals.

"Would you accept the help of Demeter, sister of Zeus?" she asked, softly.

Clytemnestra knew not how to respond to such a question coming from such a power. She feared it could all be a test, but somehow she felt that Demeter had not come to trick her. Releasing her breath and with it some tension, she dared ask:

"How would you help me in such a matter, O Demeter, when the very blood of my home carries with it a curse so vile it has consumed three generations' lives?"

Demeter stepped closer and some of her glow seemed to dim. She took Clytemnestra's hands in her own and looked down at them. "It is true there is a curse. But it is in your husband's blood, and in your children's, not your own. You can still be clean of it."

"A mother's place is by her children," said Clytemnestra mostly to herself. "It would be wrong of me to leave them. Aegisthus would not spare Agamemnon's daughters if I'm not there to stay his hand. Though they may not have any love for me, they're still flesh of my flesh."

"Is that all that stops you from leaving? If so, let me tell you this: Your daughters indeed love you not. But you are not the sole responsible for their safety." Demeter had pondered over this information for a very long time and decided it was better to speak than to allow more misfortune to happen upon this family. "For your son, Orestes returns to his home even as we speak."

"Orestes?! But word came he was dead!" Clytemnestra was frightened. If her son was indeed back, she had to inform Aegisthus immediately, lest he was caught out of guard. She made to pull away, but the goddess held her still.

"Listen!" said Demeter loudly, and all movement ceased in Clytemnestra's limbs. Her eyes were locked to the goddess, unable to look away. "Your son returns to the house of his father, and he seeks revenge. He shall take it from Aegisthus, but he will not harm your daughters. He will free them. Even now he speaks to Electra in secret. You cannot reach home in time!" Demeter's tone grew more urgent. "But you needn't. Don't you see, Clytemnestra, that your return will cause more harm than good? If he finds you there, he shall slay you. What would that make of him?"

"What of Aegisthus? Shall I abandon him to die under my son's wrath?" She asked, though without conviction. The perspective of losing her lover somehow was less painful to her than the loss of her crown, of her birthright. "What then, would you have me do, great Demeter, if I am not to return home?"

Demeter guided her slowly to look away from the sea. In the distant horizon, the sun was setting.

"I would take you with me to my gardens, Clytemnestra and instruct you in my mysteries. I would take care of you."

 

* * *

 

It was peaceful and safe where Demeter resided. No men were allowed there, and no evil could disrupt their easy lives. After a handful of summers, Clytemnestra found that though she might never find true happiness, she was content to be there. She did not miss her life of old, and sometimes it seemed no more than a nightmare.

She did not expect anything more than what she had gained already, no more than the gentle passing of the seasons and the loving work of the seeds. Somehow, there was more.

"Clytemnestra," asked the musical voice of Persephone one spring morning, the dew still clinging to the leaves. "I have brought someone to see you."

She raised her head from the flower patch she was digging up, and though her heart might stop.

Smiling radiantly at her, golden locks flying in the wind, was her baby.

"You can have her for a day," said Persephone softly, "After the ice has melted, in the spring. Make the best of it." Persephone left them swiftly to be with her Mother.

One day a year! It was not enough, it was not nearly enough! And yet it was all she had, by what powers she did not yet know. She had never expected to see Iphigenia again before her own time at Hades had arrived.

"Mother, will you not hold me?" Asked the woman with a tearful smile. Clytemnestra threw herself forward.

She would make the best of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Other than The Oresteia, I used some elements from Iphigenia in Aulis and from Electra.


End file.
